Young'uns

wandering around

looking confused

should I go 

this way                        

                    or that?

wait for the wave 

to rush over my feet

or run up into the hot sand?

we were so eager 

get away from the

overbearing parents

always telling us

what to do                    

                    what not to

freedom seemed so appealing

back then

the adults made it look 

so easy

floating on waves

dip your bill for a fish

lift up into the sky

sail through the air

but now

on our own

with my mottle-feathered gang

I'm hungry and bored

kind of cold too

missing mom and dad

The Enigma of Time

Time has a way of continuing to move on. It doesn't matter if we are moving with it, or if we are watching it go past from our easy chair. 

When I am in Florida, as I am now, time has a different quality to it than it does back in Vermont. Despite being here for several months, there is something of "vacation" about my time here. I struggle against this, by transporting my kombucha scoby and sourdough starter 1,434 miles, and making meals from scratch, despite the prevalence of dining options within walking distance once I arrive. I walk every day as I do back home, but here I have the luxury of choosing to walk on a beach or a palm-shaded path. I read the news and do the New York Times puzzles, but when I glance up and away from the screen, the inland waterway is glistening right in front of me, boats lazily making their way out to the sea for the day, and, just beyond them, the golf course stretches as far as I can see.

Florida wants to teach me how to slow down. It wants me to notice the beauty of a white bird foraging for bugs, a manatee swimming by, flowers in full bloom despite winter's chill, lizards darting across my path when I least expect them. I want to comply, I really do, and I think there is a part of me that might be starting to let time to flow by me or through me, but there is a greater part of me that still wrestles with it. There is something within me that assumes it is important to create meaning in every moment. There is a part of me that wants to prove I have achieved something with each day granted. 

I imagine that someday I will discover that there is a balance between the two, a balance between achieving and learning how to appreciate and embrace the beauty of each moment. Maybe this is the year I will take the lesson to heart.

So Much Space: An Exercise in Trust

 

So much space

expanses of time

breathing room, for sure

but for what?

Leaving work life

I imagined

opportunities 

unfurling at my feet

showing themselves

in splendor and possibility.

I find myself 

weighing the choices

looking far down each path

but more unsure than Frost

which one is for me

where my destiny lay

that "one wild"

and don't forget, 

"precious" life

I long for

and imagined

was searching for me.

Now,

here I stand

arms open

expectant

heart welcoming

daring to hope

seeking a glimpse

of what may come

into this space

that is my life

Last Tomato

sitting on the cutting board

half gone already

to Gary's salad

unaware

(both he and perhaps the tomato)

this was the last one

fresh from the garden

of good friends

shared with generosity

out of abundance, yes,

but frosty nights 

loomed

And here we are

the last of a whole red basketful

bursting with flavor

sweet in a way

store-bought cannot comprehend

delighted in with

slow breaths

closed eyes

wide smile

ecstatic tastebuds

savoring summer

 

Golden Light

Golden light 

surrounds me

just for a week or so

when the beeches turn

from summer's green

to autumn gold

This gold 

a kaliedescope

of every variant

green to yellow to brown

overwhelms me

every time

I stop my car

trying to take it in

but that is never enough

I get home

climb out of the driver's seat

and walk back

to that beautiful 

tunnel of molten light

stand

taking it in 

with every molecule of awareness

When the leaves are gone

blown by wind

pummeled by rain

too tired to hold on

when stark branches 

lift against wintry skies

remember what it felt like

when golden light

was everywhere

 

While the Sun Shines

 

While the sun shines

there is much to do

fill the woodbox

hang out laundry

mow the lawn

wash the windows

So easy to consider

all the details

making up survival

these, of course

must be done 

sometime

easier in clement weather

But what about thriving?

what about joy?

caring for the soul?

lifting my spirits?

My new list

while the sun is shining: 

wander in the woods

sit by the stream

soak in the golden warmth

stretch out in my hammock

paint the light

write a poem

Halloween Comes with Invitations

Halloween comes with invitations:

choose an identity!

get creative!

dress up!

trick or treat!

dance!

let go of the old!

For the Celts

the veil is thin

Samhain, as they know it 

sits on the cusp

a new year just about to dawn

but first

honor the old

recognize what is yours

and what is not

again, the message comes

let go

now we enter interior time

you are invited 

to go within

ever deeper

breath here

let your shoulders relax

your heartbeat slow

be here now

is all you are asked

 

Not Knowing

 

I have a very hard time dealing with uncertainty. It is difficult for me to relax into a moment when I do not know what is coming next. I like to plan ahead as much as I can, so that I can count on accomplishing the things I set out to do in a given time frame. This morning I even did a meditation that focused on helping me be more present in this particular moment, and not falling back on the habit of always thinking ahead to my next step. 

I should have known that the Universe would set out to solidify this learning experience. 

There is work going on at the condo in which Gary and I are living at the moment. We have been dealing with obnoxious sounds of drills and the toxic fumes of paints and solvents for the past few months. But now the ante has been upped. Today, or tomorrow, the painters will start sealing and then refinishing the walkways outside our door. Once they begin, we will not be able to leave or come back to the apartment between 8:30am and 3:30pm. This will be true for the full three days that it takes to complete the process. 

Did you catch that I said "today or tomorrow"? That's because the process depends on the weather, and it might rain today, so the site supervisor has to decide whether to start today or wait until tomorrow. 

Those of us who live on this floor are having a hard time with the uncertainty of it. One neighbor had a delivery of sheet rock scheduled which they had to cancel, and may have to wait to have delivered after the flooring material has fully set - at least a week from now. Another neighbor has an appointment for her drapes to be cleaned at 11. She is waiting to see if they start the walkway or not before she cancels. I am waiting too. I finally found a new home for an old sofa we have, and the thrift shop folks are coming to get it at 1pm today... or not.

Gary and I plan to leave Florida for our trip back to Vermont on Wednesday, but we may not be able to roll heavy things on the new floor by then if it rains today and the workmen don't start working on the walkways until tomorrow. Oh, and there is also a new futon we are supposed to pick up and bring into the apartment on Tuesday, which may or may not be too heavy to roll over the new and still curing floors.

Suffice it to say that there is a whole lot of uncertainty in the air here. As a result, I have the golden opportunity to really work my meditation practice hard as I attempt to be present with what is rather than worrying about all of the possibilities that might be. I don't feel up to the task, but I actually don't have a choice, so here I am, waiting, and breathing as slowly and steadily as I can manage.

Under Construction

 

Gary and I are in Florida now, a winter destination that we appreciate for its warmth and our ability to walk outdoors despite the fact that there are snowstorms back home in Vermont. Last year before we came down to Florida for our first extended stay, I wrote about the concept of home. This year, knowing what to expect from this place, I am feeling more settled here. The irony though, is that the building in which our condo is located is undergoing major renovations. From 8am until 5pm there is the unnerving sound of drilling, concrete dust floating through the air, and the odors of paint and sealants. Windows are covered with blue plastic or plywood sheets to protect them (and us!) from flying debris. The pool is inaccessible during the daytime hours, and coated with the aforementioned concrete dust and debris of indeterminate nature, even when swimming is allowed, although probably not advised.

A week or so after our arrival, once the flooring had dried and painting was (mostly) complete, we were told that we could once again use our balcony. Gary and I were thrilled. We moved the furniture back out, cleaned windows and were prepared to enjoy our favorite spot in the entire apartment. The staging was still attached, with ropes and wires hanging down 12 stories from the roof, supporting scaffold cages that could be raised and lowered to where the workers were needed. But this seemed like a small thing compared to the ability to enjoy our balcony once again.

Despite having the balcony back, our quiet mornings were not guaranteed. Several mornings, I heard the whine of the staging motor begin as I sat out there in my pajamas and robe, enjoying a cup of tea. I would dash inside to change into something acceptable (to me) for company. Soon enough, the faces of a construction worker or two rose into view. Sometimes they stopped at our level and hopped out to clean windows, touch up the paint or address another last-minute issue. Other times they were just passing by on their way to upper levels of the building.

So, yes, we are here in Florida, enjoying the warmth and sunshine. And yes, we are also living in a construction zone. Most days we wander off to another location for a few hours - the beach, the library, a nature trail - returning as the workday winds down. It is a different kind of balance than the one I anticipated in coming down here, but it works for us. It also pushes us to get out and about rather than sitting too long in one place.

A Pilgrimage to the Familiar

 

Every September for the past several years, Gary and I, along with our good friends, Meredith and Ray, make our way to Monhegan Island in Maine. It is a place that I have written about before. Ten miles off the shore, Monhegan is an island inhabited by artists and writers in the summer months, some of whom fell in love with the island long ago and some, like me, who are relative newcomers. 

During the colder months the population dwindles down to about 45, the town water supply is shut off to protect pipes from freezing, most business shut down or depend on the honor system. I have tried to imagine what it might be like to spend a winter there, hunkered down in a cozy cottage to focus on my writing. I wonder if I have what it takes to make it through the isolation and the cold. Would my fascination hold? I like to think so, and maybe some day Gary and I will try it out.

For now, we limit our visits to the "shoulder seasons" of June and September when the island is a bit less populated by day trippers and tourists. (Yes, I know I am technically a tourist too, but loving and spending time on Monhegan when she is a little less hospitable feels like it might win me some small concession in that department.) Remembering to bring my down coat in June, climbing into a full set of rain gear to walk out to the edge of Lobster cove's rocks in a storm, singing at a Jamboree lit by kerosene lights as the evening cools, are all gifts of this time of year.

September is beautiful there. Purple and yellow-gold flowers are in bloom. Migratory birds can be prolific, as can be the butterflies. Sunsets are amazing, and there is nothing like exhausting yourself out on the trails all day before coming back to the cottage to toast the sunset on the porch before settling in for a good meal and a cozy evening with friends.

As I prepared for this latest trip to Monhegan, a friend suggested that I consider it as a pilgrimage. The idea intrigued me. I thought it might deepen my experience in ways that simply showing up for a vacation would not. And so, I brought my journal along and committed to write in it every day. Most days I sketched as well, despite the fact that I really have no talent for that kind of art. ("I am an artist with words" I like to assert, "but not so much with any other methods.")

It felt like my time on Monhegan did go deeper in response to seeing it as a pilgrimage. I was less concerned with doing things and more content to simply be. It felt good to show up for each new day with an open mind, willing to let it unfold as it would. I found myself trusting that whatever happened, wherever I wandered, and whatever I did, would be just what the moment called for, and for the most part this is exactly how it felt. 

Coming home is always a melancholic experience. Leaving behind such a special place and such a golden time is not easy, but somehow when I left this time I felt more prepared for the re-entry back into my everyday life. It felt like I had gleaned what I needed to from my pilgrimage, and would be returning home a little more centered for the effort.

Old Treasure & New

I find it really difficult to sort out trash from treasure. Sure, I have heard Marie Kondo's suggestion that I hold each item to see if it sparks joy and only keep those that do, but sometimes the memories attached to things are so strong I can't decipher if there is joy in the mix or not. 

Recently our small town library had a yard sale. Folks set up tables and artfully displayed their wares, hoping someone would choose something they were ready to part with. My intention was to bring a whole carload of things that have been accumulating on our shelves over the past several years. As the day approached, it became obvious that I had not done the necessary weeding out work in preparation for the big event. Sure, I had a few boxes of things to offer, but truthfully, they barely scratched the surface of all that we would like to move along to a new home. 

In the midst of all that did not "move along", Gary and I did decide to bring a couch that has been a part of our lives for many years. It was gifted to us when some dear friends moved out of state several years ago. It wasn't really their style or our style either, but it came with the story of our friendship and some good memories. In my office at the local college, it offered a safe space for students to sit while engaged in wonderful conversations during the years Gary and I worked there. We brought it back to our house when the college closed, but it never really seemed at home here. It's formal airs seemed daintily at odds with our overstuffed couch, pine tables and braided rug.

It is so much easier to part with the things that hold a place in our hearts if we see them transferred safely into someone else's appreciative hands. This is exactly what happened when we brought the couch to the library's yard sale. I did some research to figure out an appropriate asking price, and soon a young family came over, exclaiming about the color, the style, and how it was just right for their home. When I told the woman who the former owners were, she was thrilled, telling me that our friend's book was her favorite childhood companion. As we were talking her daughter came and plunked herself down on the couch, settling in comfortably. It seemed the decision was made; the couch chose its new family just as clearly as they had chosen it.

Where Does the Time Go?

 

Time is such a slippery element of our lives. When I was working, somehow I accomplished everything necessary at home while also managing to carry on a full time job. Now that I am retired, I often get to the end of a day and find myself wondering, "what just happened here!?" The days pass weirdly slowly, but in what should be the opposite, they also go by in a blur, with less accomplished than I had hoped for at their dawning.

A few weeks ago my sister called to ask if Gary and I wanted to join them for a long weekend in the Finger Lakes. Sue and Mike wanted to check out some of the many wineries in the area, and had found a cabin on Cayuga Lake that had a beach for swimming as well as paddle boards and kayaks that we could use to explore the lake. My gut response was, "Oh no, we can't do that. It is coming up too fast. We don't have time enough to plan." But I took a breath, as I am learning to do thanks to several years of mindfulness practice, and asked myself, "well, why not?"

A week later, having made arrangements for our cats to be cared for in our absence, we loaded up the car and took off for the adventure.

What amazed me about those days was that there seemed to be enough time to reconnect in a meaningful way with my sister and her husband, as well as to relax and enjoy the cabin and lake. We sat on the dock to watch the sunrise, sang songs around the campfire with the folks at the cabin next door, we paddle boarded north one day and south the next, and swam for a while when we were hot and tired. We even saw a golden eagle when we were paddling, and a brilliant rainbow stretching from the sky down to the other shore after a storm. Somehow we also had plenty of time to hike to a waterfall in one of the famous gorges, and took in more than six wineries, breweries, or distilleries over the course of our time there.

When we got back home, I was slightly bewildered by all of the exceptionally fun things we managed to accomplish in such a brief time. "How did time stretch so far?" I don't have an answer, but maybe it has something to do with truly being present in each moment as best we could. All I do know is that I am going to keep practicing. Maybe I'll get even better at it, and learn how to stretch out the rest of my life in some amazing ways?

Be Here Now

 

There is such a profusion of beauty in the natural world. The other day Gary and I took a hike on Endless Brook Trail, which is near our home in Vermont. We came upon these flowers at the beginning of the trail. They arrested my attention, as the person who planted and tends them was most likely hoping they would, and I am grateful for that. All too often I plunge from one thing to the next, checking things off of my "To Do" list as I turn my attention to the next thing on said list.

These flowers stopped me in my tracks (tracks that were heading rather quickly and single-mindedly to the summit of the trail), and I am glad they did. They reminded me that it is not just the summit that is of value. The means by which we get to the goal of our climb matters too. In this case, the trail itself and everything it contained was worth noticing. For instance, the name of the trail comes from the brook that runs along it for awhile. The water goes underground for long stretches and then pops up again so it seems to be endless.

As a result of slowing down, Gary and I took in the beauty of these flowers and all of the bees, butterflies and other insects who were visiting them as well. A little further on, we saw a frog in the pond, well-camouflaged among the lily pads he was resting on. Every few steps along the trail, mushrooms of various wild colors caught our attention. They ranged in hue from pale white to yellow, from orange to bright red, and from the tiniest perceptible dot to saucer-size platters scattered among the leaves, roots and ferns.

Of course, we did reach the lookout at the top of the hill after a good while climbing, and the view was nice to take in. Gary and I sat on a fallen tree in what little shade we could find and munched on snacks of walnuts and red grapes along with sips of refreshing water as we looked out over Lake Saint Catherine. Far below we saw boats circling lazily, and above them, some raptors cruising the skies.

On the way down, I stopped at the stream and took off my shoes, sitting with the water as it moved by, and watched the play of sunlight reflected from the water onto the bank across from me. Small fish swam near me, checking out my toes while some curious water creatures who looked like sticks with wiry appendages moved with jerks across the sandy bottom.

Ram Dass is known for his philosophy and book titled "Be Here Now". It is a phrase that I thought I understood when I was first introduced to it, but my earliest impression was just scratching the surface of its possible meanings. I like to think I am getting better at truly understanding it as time goes on. Days like this one, when I can reflect on so many small, interesting and beautiful things that captured my attention tell me I just might be getting closer to not just comprehending what it means to Be Here Now, but actually living it.

Obligation or Joyful Pleasure ?

 I was swimming today, reflecting on how nice it is to be staying with my daughter and able to make easy use of the very close-by community pool to swim laps. There was a subtle but important difference between the pleasure I was taking in the feel of moving through the water as I relaxed into the strokes I know so well and the concern I had felt earlier in the day when I thought, “I need to get to the pool so I can do my laps.”

“Actually, I don’t have to swim laps today if I don’t feel like it,” I realized. “I can go if I want to, but I don’t have to. And I can swim if I want to, but there is nothing saying that I have to do laps. I could just splash around for awhile without worrying about how long I swam or how many laps I completed.” 

I sat back on my heels and pondered the possibilities for a little while, savoring the freedom I recognized myself to be luxuriating within. Given this new sense of limitless possibilities, I felt myself released from the need to conform to expectations. I decided I would go to the pool, but once I was there I would simply do whatever felt good and right in the moment. 

When I arrived, I was greeted with a warm welcome by the women at the desk, who are getting to know me. And as I walked into the pool area, the lifeguard and I talked about how quiet it was. She told me just a ten minutes before, the pool had been pretty busy. As a lap swimmer, I was glad for the quiet because it meant I would probably have a lane to myself and could swim without worrying about bumping into other people, especially when swimming the backstroke.

My swim today was just right, because it was just what I needed to tap into the simple pleasure of, not only swimming, but of being alive and of appreciating my body for all it does for me, not least of all carrying me through the water with a certain ease. 

This whole experience reminded me of an interaction I had with a dear woman who directed the choir at a church I served for quite some time. I sang in the choir there, and I have to admit that I did it out of a certain sense of obligation. “You have a good voice. You ought to sing,” was the message the Protestant work ethic and all of my ancestors who espoused its principles imposed on me. But one day Sue, the director, and I were talking. With a sparkle in her eye she said to me, “you know, some people sing because they actually enjoy it.”

Caught red-handed by her incredibly perceptive comment, I thought long and hard about the place of joy in my singing and in my life. Somehow I had managed to take something joyful and fashion it into a “should”. Wow. That was not how I wanted to live my life. From then on, when I sang with the choir I set my intention for experiencing the sheer pleasure of singing. Sometimes, despite my good intentions, I have to admit I grumbled a bit as I made my way to choir practice on a cold winter night, but Sue had definitely helped me see the value of tapping into the joy whenever I could.

I feel like today’s experience with swimming was a reminder to tap into the joys of my life as much as I possibly can. Obligations have their place, but not when they crowd joy and pleasure out of the picture.

Winds of Change

It was one of our last afternoons at the beach. The winds were blowing so strongly that sand bit at our legs. Sitting down would have been pointless in that kind of intensity, so we had come just to walk, and even that turned out to be challenging. The only folks thrilled with the weather were the kite surfers who dotted the coastline, enthusiastically riding the rough waves beneath their colorful parachute-like kites.

A few days before, I had tried to relax in my beach chair under similar windy conditions, only to have the pages of my book repeatedly ripped out of my hands, my hair blown into my eyes, and the umbrella turned inside out. Within moments of our arrival, sand had coated every surface of our bags, chairs and towels, and there was no reprieve. Those winds were powerfully steady, and the rip currents were strong. None of this showed any signs of letting up. Needless to say, we did not last very long before we abandoned the beach for the relative calm to be found only a few hundred yards inland.

Today, without the expectation of relaxing in a beach chair or swimming in the surf, we were traveling light. Walking along the beach unencumbered by bags or chairs, we were able to notice things that we had not fully appreciated before. Fighting the wind, I bent down close to the sand and saw that underneath each shell was a tiny mountain carved out of the sand. Each tiny shell-protected mountain seemed to be a microcosm of the larger mountain ranges that stretch across the landscape of this and other countries. Walking against the wind, it was easy to imagine we were trekking across steep and difficult places.

With the addition of these intense winds, what had been a welcoming beach became a stark and desolate landscape that challenged us with every step we took. The sound was relentless, a roar that made it hard to hear anything else. It was difficult to tell where the sound of the wind stopped and that of the equally intense waves began. Some birds were careening overhead, but if they were calling out, their cries were swallowed up and could not be heard.

This did not feel like the same beach at which we had spent so many calm, peaceful and relaxed afternoons! My thoughts veered sharply between feeling sad that we could not sit down to enjoy another one of those sweet afternoons, and sensing that the winds were exactly what we needed to be able to walk away from the idyllic world we had participated in for a good long while.

The winds of change were blowing, reminding us that our time in the south had come to an end. It was time to head home, despite the fact that we would miss the warmth, the sun, the beach and the ocean. It was time to head home and see what possibilities were moving toward us on those winds.

 

...And Every One, Unique

Gary and I arrived at one of our favorite beaches at low tide the other day. The sheer quantity of shells caught my breath. Searching for shells under normal conditions, when they are scattered sparsely across the wide sandy landscape, is one thing. It becomes something very different when you are confronted with such an abundance of riches. 

You may have noticed that when you are looking for shells on a beach, it is the rare ones that capture your attention. Shells seem to lose their cache' when surrounded by seemingly thousands of lookalikes. Ironically, and sadly to my mind, this is true even of colorful and intriguingly shaped ones. 

To counteract this, I find that I want to appreciate each shell for itself, for the beauty it offers in the pattern of color that sweeps across it, or the unique design of the material from which it is formed. This became more of a possibility for me today when we again arrived at the beach at low tide. Instead of setting up my fitness device to start measuring steps as I usually do, I made the conscious decision not to think of this as a form of exercise. 

I simply started walking. Actually, I started wandering down the shoreline where the waves were receding. As one does in meditation, I cultivated a soft gaze. I was not actively looking for anything, I was simply opening myself up to the time and place, availing myself of the opportunity to take in whatever caught my attention. 

As I walked, I felt peaceful. I didn't feel the need to rush or to arrive at some particular destination. The shells shone up at me from the sand, and I felt like I really saw each one. I noticed colors and shapes. I stopped often to pick up a shell that seemed especially interesting so that I could feel its texture. Some were brittle and paper thin, which others had what seemed to be years worth of accumulation built up on the original shell. Some were intact while others were mere fragments of their former selves, having been pounded by the relentless waves tossing them up on the shore and drawing them back into the water over and over again.

The uniqueness of each shell reminded me of the value of seeing myself and others as I was learning to see and appreciate the shells, as unique and beautiful. This is true even if we are a bit brittle or broken at times. That soft gaze I spoke of at the beginning of my walk, the one I learned in meditation, helps me look at myself and others with the eyes of the heart rather than just in physical terms. This is probably the best gift we can give each other. It is also a pretty amazing gift we can give to ourselves, to see and recognize the unique beauty we bring to the world around us.

Practicing Presence: A Consideration of Loyalties

Gary and I are spending a couple of months in Florida this winter, staying in the condo that my parents left to us. As a person who has lived in the Northeast all of her life, it feels strange to be in the land of sunshine and warmth while my friends and neighbors back home are shoveling snow. When we used to visit my parents here for a week or so, it always felt like I was cheating on Vermont, engaging in a clandestine affair with the warm sunshine and welcoming ocean. No matter how difficult it might have been, going back home to the snow and cold always seemed like it was the right thing to do.

My attitude shifted the January we returned to the Albany, NY airport after a huge snowstorm. Stumbling off the plane as we entered the chilly terminal, we were in shock after having worn shorts and swim suits for a week. Before going any further, we stopped to pull several layers of clothing out of our luggage as insulation against the cold air. 

A little while later, the shuttle dropped us off in long term parking where we trudged through several inches of snow in our sneakers. Our car was barely visible. Having forgotten to bring the proper equipment, we scrounged around and seized on an empty Christmas cookie tin to scoop the snow off of the car. This was followed up by scraping the windshield with credit cards in order to create a window of visibility. Driving home that night, we questioned our loyalty to the "frozen tundra" as my former mother-in-law used to refer to it. 

After that wintry re-entry ordeal it was not that big of a jump for us to consider spending more time in Florida once I retired. We listed to ourselves and any skeptical friends all of the reasons for our escape - Gary's neuropathy was much better in the heat, I could swim every day, we could write in peace and quiet, and we both knew we would be recharged by walking on the beach which was no more than five minutes away.

Being in Florida, I can say that all of our reasons for coming have played out as well as we hoped. There is an ease that comes from being in an environment that does not threaten you with freezing temperatures or blizzards. The basic warmth, regular opportunities to swim and our proximity to the ocean for daily walks have all contributed to a real feeling of being welcomed here. Sure, we miss our friends. We miss our home in Vermont and the beauty of her wintery landscapes. We miss our sweet cats and the cozy wood fires that heat our house, but we are assured by conversations with friends and texts from our house sitter that these will all be waiting for us when we return. 

Do I feel guilty about escaping the cold? Well, maybe a little, but honestly not nearly as much as I thought I might. This is causing a bit of an identity crisis for me because I like to think of myself as a hardy Vermonter. It is kind of confusing to find myself so comfortable and even complacent with the life we are crafting in Florida. I am starting to feel like I might have a split personality - one being the kind of person who hauls in firewood and walks outside every day no matter how cold it gets, and the other being a relaxed connoisseur of sunshiny warmth and ocean waves. 

This might be confusing, but I also am starting to think that it is just fine.

For years my mindfulness practices have attempted to convince me that being fully present in the here and now is important. I have always found this ability to be elusive, as my mind keeps wandering here and there worrying about what I might be missing out on, when I am attempting to meditate. Mindfulness teachers encourage me to cultivate the ability of being content wherever I find myself, no matter where that is. 

Is it possible, then, that what I am experiencing is a bit of that mindful feeling of presence?  Is it possible that my being content here in Florida, even while knowing I will also be happy in Vermont is an example of mindfulness in real life? I sure hope so. I would love to think that all of those hours of meditation practice are finally paying off.

What Makes It Christmas?

Gary and I will be traveling for Christmas this year, spending it at my daughter and son-in-law's home. Having retired, I am no longer responsible for crafting a Christmas Eve Service. This in itself feels very strange to me. I am used to my holiday celebrations being shaped by the outside forces of work and responsibility. If I am honest, I actually enjoy this part of ministry. I enjoy creating meaningful experiences that help people come closer to the true meaning of Christmas and other celebratory days in the church year. 

There is such an outer pull from the world around us to celebrate in specific ways, ways that skim the surface of the season rather than taking us deeply into its heart. I have always been a person who wanted to go deeper. From the time I was a little girl, I have appreciated the mystery that surrounds Christmas. I loved the candlelight at the evening church service, singing Silent Night acapella and then feeling the hush in the darkness afterward as we walked out into the night, clutching our small candles.

Meister Eckhardt gave voice to this mystery for me, claiming, "unless the Christ is born within me, then it does not matter that he was born 2,000 years ago in a stable in Bethlehem." 

I find myself wondering what will bring the season home for me this year. We aren't getting our usual live Christmas Tree, thinking it doesn't make sense. In an effort at compensating, we bought a rosemary bush shaped like a Christmas tree, but it is really not the same.  I did make wreaths with my friend and hung ours on the door as usual, with a string of lights, so that is one tradition that remains the same. Gary and I set up our tiny creche that spins thanks to the warmth of candles arrayed around its base, and placed some pine boughs in a vase hoping that the scent would permeate the air a bit, too.

It is definitely not the same, and yet the differences are causing me to go deeper in my own thinking about what Christmas is really all about. We will gather with family, which for me is the heart of the holiday. I will most likely continue to write about how this all feels to me. My intention is to spend a fair amount of time reflecting on just how the Christ is being born both within and all around me. Maybe a good question to hold in mind is where is the Holy in this moment, in this experience, in this conversation?

Ghosts that Haunt Me

This piece of writing is in response to a prompt I received from Mia Boynton, librarian at Monhegan, ME. Just in time for Halloween, she encouraged our writing group to craft a piece that reflects on one or more meanings of "haunt". Here is mine:

I have to confess that I am haunted by shoulda, woulda, coulda's ever since Holden Caulfield keyed me in to their existence. There are so many possibilities that might have been chosen, and being one person, I have only been able to manage one choice in each circumstance. But that doesn't mean I don't think about the others. So many choices and we only get to pick one! It doesn't seem fair, does it?

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both,
And be one traveler, long I stood...

Sometimes I feel like I am still standing there with good ole Robert, looking as far down the road as I can, putting off the moment when I take my first step in the other direction. But it is true what they say about not making a choice actually being a choice, and so I know I did finally put one foot in front of the other. I did, finally, start walking down one path, although I confess to looking over my shoulder a bit.

I remember being shocked by a friend who said she never second guessed herself. When she made a choice, she never looked back. She just got on with it without giving even a thought to the options she had turned her back on. Wow, I felt so lost in that moment, lost in the forest of possibilities that torment me every time a choice is squeezed out of me.

The numberless unlived possibilities invade my thoughts like so many ghosts sometimes. usually on a day when I don't feel I have accomplished much. About four o'clock in the afternoon they push me to find something useful to do  before night closes in. Write a novel! Bake bread! Tend the garden! Make an amazing dinner! Compose a poem! Clean the bathroom! Do something, anything! - Quickly - before the ghosts get too comfortable and set up house.

In Situ

When the sun came out after a cloudy morning, I decided to take a walk. I love to feel the winds blowing and watch the leaves float through the skies. As I walked a variety of leaves of all colors and conditions caught my attention. Some drifted down to the dirt road, while others caught along the side of the road, landing on piles of their older neighbors. The phrase "in situ" came to me. It means "situated in the original place". 

I thought it would be interesting to take pictures of the leaves exactly where they fell, even if that meant a background of dirt and rocks or decaying brown vegetation. I found it meditative to walk along noticing but not moving anything as I recorded the truth of what was. Often the sunlight cast interesting shadows and patterns of light on the leaves, or the wind blew offering a new perspective in the moment.

As usual, what was going on outside of me caused me to reflect on my interior workings as well. How do I fit into my surroundings? What kind of contrasts do the colors, light and shadow create around me and within me? What does "in situ" mean for me as I feel my way into the next phase of my life? I don't have answers, although I enjoy writing as a way to explore thought-provoking questions. And maybe it is like the leaves I photographed today. Maybe each background against which we find ourselves offers a new perspective? Maybe there is something I can glean from each place in which I find myself, whether that's walking along the road, on my couch with a cat on my lap as I meditate, kneeling in the garden planting garlic, driving to town with NPR on the radio or sitting with the sun on my shoulder as I type out some thoughts?